I know. You saw pretty things: how the birds
Paint themselves wild with color, flowers
Ruffle and flounce. You wanted to be pretty too.
And you are: to the poets, the painters,
Little children who feel a parade when
You arrive, and those dizzy young men with
Stars in their eyes who don’t want to rub them
Away, ever. All those in this world who
Are numbered among the hopelessly sane.
But when you put on clothes he could forget
How we are in this world; began to think
About other things than bringing you shells
Or flowers or desserts; began to think
Maybe life isn’t that much of a mystery;
Began to think things looked better in straight
Lines, that black and white were the best colors.
Flowers and birds and contentment-useless.
Well, alright, as long as they didn’t get
In the way. And he began counting: stars
Trees, gold, slaves, houses, children, and kisses;
Began to believe whatever he could count
Was important because it was counted.
And soon everything had a number. Then
He climbed still higher to see if it all
Could be counted. Oh, he liked you better
Covered. It got rid of those distractions
Like life and love, beauty and meaning. But,
There was nothing to anchor him to earth;
Nothing to remind him life needs a root;
Nothing to get in the way of counting
Each thing- all the way- to his extinction.
Morris Dance attended the University of Utah and studied with Galway Kinnell, Judith Hemschemeyer, and Richard Schramm. Time, sadly, they will never get back. He has worked in a variety of jobs; among them retail management and transit bus driver. Time, sadly, he will never get back. He currently resides alone, accursed, yet strangely happy in California’s central valley.